Accepting the Final Truth
by CassandraIsCool
Summary: There are many things Harry has trouble accepting, but none were so hard to accept as the death of Albus Dumbledore.


**(JK owns HP)**

**Accepting the Final Truth**

Dumbledore's not coming. It's final. He's dead, departed, deceased, and lifeless. He's in the ground and rotting. For all I know worms are crawling over his decayed body, in and out of eye sockets and rib cages. I don't care. He's not coming and I don't care.

Lying on the bed became boring and uncomfortable after a few weeks, the bugs had infested my make-shift bed in the shrubs, and I refused to go downstairs to lie on the couch because that required being in the same room as the Dursleys. That meant that I was stuck with what was in my room which currently meant a bed on the floor made of dirty laundry. Most people would call it disgusting, I called it living.

It had been two weeks since my birthday and I was still living in this hellhole. I'm seventeen and still living in this hellhole. Aren't I an adult? Aren't I allowed to make decisions? So why was I still here? Why was I still living with the Dursleys who have hated me since I first appeared on their doorstep? My reason is so stupid for staying here; I should have left two weeks ago, Dumbledore said I only need to stay for a little bit, not the whole summer. So why was I still here?

This year was my seventeenth birthday and I had woken up expecting to stay in my room all day and glumly await a letter from Ron or Hermione tell me to sit tight and wait for a rescue party. I eventually received a letter from both of them, implying that they were together, but it wasn't until the next day. When I had woken up on July 31 it was the incessant knocking of what could be assumed my wonderful Aunt Petunia; I was right. I had rolled out of my bed and onto the floor, which resulted in me finding the comfortableness of it. But the knocking continued and I eventually opened the door.

"Harry dear, why don't you come downstairs for your birthday breakfast?" Aunt Petunia said sweetly when I opened the door. My jaw dropped opened as I stared in shock at her. Birthday breakfast? Maybe she's gone blind and mistaken me for Dudley and it really isn't July 31.

I was still standing at the door when Aunt Petunia went downstairs and my jaw was still dropped when she called up again for me to come downstairs.

I reluctantly went downstairs to find a breakfast feast before me. Where they finally going to start treating me like a human being? Was that even possible for them?

I sat down under the eyes of the three Dursleys. Something in their grins triggered something in me as I sat there. Then it hit me. They didn't care about me. They cared that I was going to be leaving.

"So when do you think you'll be going?" Uncle Vernon asked as causally as he could while I sat there staring back at them. It was an innocent enough question but had so much meaning. The deal was for me to leave on my seventeenth birthday; that's when my protection expired, and they just wanted to know when I was going to leave so that they could live normal lives again with the notion that magic didn't exist.

So why was I still sitting in this god-forsaken place?

Two weeks ago the letters stopped coming from my friends. They were expecting me to come to Grimmauld Place. I didn't want to go there. Too many memories were housed there and I didn't want to face them. I didn't want to go to Hogwarts either. Every place carries memories that I don't want to face. Even the Dursley household had memories, most of them horrid and painful, but staying in this room was better than going out in the world.

It would be better just to curl up and die in this room. It would probably be weeks before anyone found me.

So why was I in this room, staying here at the Dursleys?

Because Dumbledore had been here. He took me here. He knew what I went through every year. He wanted me to be with my last remaining family members. He wanted me to live in this hellhole. The least I could do is honor his wishes.

Everyday, though, I expect a letter, telling me Dumbledore wanted to teach me a charm or a jinx; anything to help me! I wonder everyday if he would've done that; send me a letter to practice a spell or a hint about Voldemort's whereabouts.

A pecking on the window brought me out of my reverie. I looked over to the window to see Hedwig impatiently pecking the window. I groaned as I reluctantly let her in.

Hedwig flew around the room a couple of times, dropped a piece of parchment, and flew out the window again.

"Some friend you are," I called out angrily to her retreating back. It's been two weeks since I've seen Hedwig and all she does is drop a letter and then leave again.

I inspected the letter set before me. It was an unmarked, folded parchment. When I help it up to the light, I could see a short paragraph. Curiosity got the better of me, though, as I slowly began to open the letter. Who would be sending a letter to me now? Were Hermione and Ron finally going to start talking to me again?

Harry James Potter,

You are reading this letter, which can only mean one thing; I am no longer here among the living. Do not grieve for me. If you are, stop. I will not bore you with ways to protect yourself against Voldemort; you are a very talented wizard and can handle him with your own strength. I leave you with just a simple note. Love is the greatest magic of all. It will help you in your battle. And remember, death is but the next great adventure.

Albus Dumbledore

Past Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

I laughed. I couldn't help it. Only Dumbledore would send me a letter when I most needed it, even when he was dead. How did he do it? He was a crazy, old cook all right.

My laughing slowly subsided though when I reread the letter. Reading this letter made me realized he was really gone. He was never going to be there to protect me. He wasn't going to help me find the other Horcruxes. He wasn't going help me. He was really gone.

"He's not coming," I said aloud as I stood up from my bed of filthy laundry. I started to pick up books strewn across the room, clean and dirty clothes, and quills and ink bottles from all around the room. I place them all in my trunk. "He really isn't coming."


End file.
